Water Fountain Fool

It waits.

In January, my sixth-grader missed his first middle school dance.

He had really wanted to attend this masquerade-themed party for three local parish schools. I confirmed with his friends' moms that they would be there. He designed a mask made to look like a monster character he has written about for a Young Authors book. I helped him bring it to life. 

The plan (top) and the execution (bottom)

He was all set to have a great time. And then: the flu.

On the Wednesday before the Friday dance, he came home early from school feeling queasy. By dinner time he was dealing with nausea, a stuffy head, runny nose, a slight cough, and a 102-degree fever. He hardly moved off the couch for the next two days.

When he asked through a fatigued haze if he could still go to the dance, I had to break the bad news that he could not. Tears dripped down his flushed cheeks.

My heart ached for him, because I had wallowed through that kind of disappointment. But mine has an embarrassing story attached.

The first dance I really wanted to attend, but didn't, was my freshman year in high school. At 14 I was old enough to be interested in boys but too young to drive, so every day after school I waited for my dad to pick me up. While I watched for his car to appear in the parking lot outside, I hung out with a few other kids in an area between the beat-up gymnasium that smelled like floor wax and sweat and the freezing-cold band hall that smelled like wet wool and spit valves. The spot didn't have a name, this foyer of sorts, but it did have multiple glass doors set into a wall of windows where students could avoid the weather and chat with friends while we kept an eye out for our rides. 

It was there I met a boy I'll call Charlie, because I think that was his name. 

Charlie was quiet and reserved, with sandy brown hair and eyes blue enough to drown in. He ran with the "kicker" crowd - the country kids who took ag classes and wore boots to school every day. After a few weeks of short conversations, I had developed a crush on him and wanted to ask him to the school dance. It was the 90s, and Girl Power was all the rage.

One afternoon while we both waited to be picked up, we sat in plastic school chairs that had been dragged over from somewhere else. I was cross-legged, Indian style as they used to say, trying to gather up my guts and be brave. Shortly before the time my dad usually showed up, I mentioned the upcoming dance and asked if he'd like to go with me.

I thought he could see my heart pounding through my ribs while I waited a beat for his answer.

Then, he told me no.

I hadn't given much thought about what to do if he declined; I had focused all my energy on the asking and the pending dance, not his answer. I didn't know what to say or do next. This wasn't at all the way I pictured the encounter going.

After a moment of stunned silence, I panicked and tried to lean into my Girl Power vibe. I told him if money was an issue, I would pay for the tickets since I had asked.

My friends, this did not help. 

He told me money wasn't an issue, but didn't offer any reason beside that. No other plans, no my mom says I can't date, no I have to wash my cow that night, nothing. And so I sat there cross-legged in my chair - rejected, embarrassed, fighting the urge to flee - for the next few minutes, staring straight ahead out the bright windows. Neither of us said a word. When my dad's awful brown Chevy Chevette puttered into view, it looked like mercy, and I jumped up.

As I unfolded my legs and put both feet on the ground, a split-second thought registered in my head: sitting all tucked up, my entire right leg had fallen very much asleep. It felt numb and disconnected from my butt clear down to my toes. But the urge to get out of this humiliating situation was stronger than my weak leg, so I had to manage. I decided to fake perseverance. 

I took one step forward with my left foot, no problem. But as I attempted to take a step forward with my right leg, it betrayed me and buckled beneath my weight. Inertia hurtled my body ahead anyway, and I fell chest-first onto the metal water fountain bolted to the school wall.

Save me.

My face turned a never-before-seen shade of scarlet. I was a little breathless from the force of metal against ribs. And I was staring into a drain I felt like I was circling. Embarrassment swallowed me whole.

(In retrospect I should have been glad the metal menace was there, sticking out boldly like a friend for my arms to grab hold of, because otherwise I might have planted face-first into the wall or on the tile floor.) 

As I clung to my metal support, the rushing blood from my embarrassment combined forces with the adrenaline from my half-fall and startled my right leg into cooperation. With pins and needles poking through my leg, I stood up straight and tried to regain my dignity. There was little left.  

Behind me, Charlie asked if I was alright. I told him I was fine, and pretended like falling into drinking fountains was normal for teen girls, nothing to see here. Then I picked up my school books and limped straight out the door without looking back. 

In my wake, I'm sure Charlie was glad he had turned down a dance date with this strange blabbermouth freshman who thought he was poor and literally couldn't walk straight. 

Charlie didn't come around that nameless spot by the band hall and gym any more after that, and I didn't go to that dance.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have given him the flu.